The Haunting of Lassiter And O'Hara
by Loafer
Summary: Our detectives spend a spooky night in a creepy mansion. Lassiet, NON-CANON (there, I said it). Repost, because I finally got around to finishing it this time. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I own no part of _psych_. I own nothing but dust. I will share it with you. Send your address.  
**Disclaimer 2**: I'm serious about the dust.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: Carlton and Juliet's all-nighter in an old house tests them both. This is a Lassiet I originally started posting during the week of Halloween, but I couldn't quite make the leap from Ch2 to Ch3 and decided to pull the story rather than let it hang out there. However, the muse came back, and so here we go 'round again, with tweaks and additions galore. Ch2 tomorrow, and the final chapter on Saturday.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton left town for the profiling conference the morning after he kissed her, and answered only her work-related texts over the next week.

_He's scared._

Juliet cautioned herself a few times that maybe she was being arrogant—_you shouldn't assume every man wants you_—but she knew him. As much as he held private from everyone, she _knew_ him.

He was telling himself to pretend it didn't happen, because it shouldn't have happened, so it couldn't have happened, so therefore it didn't happen, and when he came back he would have mustered the courage to pretend to her _face_ that it hadn't happened.

Except, she thought bemusedly on Thursday afternoon as she texted him again, it _had_ happened.

_Have you heard from D.A. Clark about the Gray case?_

His testiness came through loud and clear: _What's he want now?_

Juliet smiled at the screen.

_He wants more surveillance._

_Set it up._

_He wants you on it._

_Why?_

_Because you're the best._

Long pause. She imagined him alternating between a justifiably arrogant _hell yeah_ and an eyeroll that Clark would ever say such a thing. Even after the Sergei Czarsky case's successful conclusion, Clark was still unenamored of Carlton personally.

Carlton settled for the justifiable arrogance: _Hell yeah I am, but it's just surveillance._

_He says you don't miss things. _

Another pause.

_Neither does Spencer. Tell Clark to get him._

Fair enough, but Clark liked Shawn even less than he liked Carlton.

She keyed in the coup de grâce: _Clark said you, and Vick says yes. _

Then she waited for his irritation to show up on her screen.

The Grays were two brothers and a sister who allegedly moved stolen goods out of their house at the edge of an old posh neighborhood. The car traffic to their home had initially attracted attention from annoyed neighbors, and since a few of them were nosy as well, it wasn't long before someone spotted suspicious activity far too late at night, with money changing hands.

However, Geoff Gray was an antiques dealer of some standing, so the district attorney wanted to be very sure before anyone moved in on them.

Carlton finally texted back a terse agreement and said he'd call Chief Vick for specs. (He could have gotten the information from Juliet, but clearly wasn't ready to talk to _her_ yet.)

Still, Juliet smiled as she set her phone down. He couldn't hide forever.

**. . . . **

**. . .**

"The Pumphrey House," Chief Vick began, "is situated—"

"Excuse me," Carlton interrupted. "Pumphrey?"

"For Cartavious Pumphrey," she elucidated, "who built the mansion in 1900."

He blinked.

Juliet glanced at him. He was all cool remote distance, emphasis on 'cool.' Even the vivid blue of his expressive eyes suggested the North Sea rather than the Mediterranean.

Vick raised her eyebrows. "Anything else?"

"No, just admiring the name. Go on."

The Chief allowed a small smile, and handed them folders. "The mansion is situated on a slight hill above the Gray house, with an excellent view of the back entrance to their garage, where the alleged suspicious activity occurs. Because the mansion is largely unoccupied, we assume the Grays don't worry overmuch about anyone there seeing what's going on. We've arranged with the owners to set up on the third floor at the back, and you'll be there from eight until three. The neighbors have indicated Friday nights are usually busy for the Grays."

"What do you mean, the mansion is 'largely unoccupied'?"

"The owners travel a lot. Franklin and Charity Pumphrey, both retired."

"How big is the house exactly?" Juliet wondered if she'd ever seen it.

"Pretty damn." She consulted her notes. "Three floors plus an attic."

As Vick went on describing what the D.A. wanted out of the operation, Juliet stole glances at Carlton.

He'd breezed in mid-morning straight from the airport, was civil (but remote) when she tried to make ordinary conversation, then immersed himself in catch-up work until Vick was ready to lay out the plan.

But even only two feet away from her, the chill of his self-protective guard was palpable.

A chill which had evaporated—turned to steam, even—when he kissed her four days ago.

_Poor Carlton_, she mused. _Having to be in control All. The. Time_.

Well, she wasn't going to push him right now.

She had from eight to three a.m. to do that.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The Pumphrey mansion loomed imposingly near the end of the cul-de-sac, and in the fading light of early evening appeared to be watching _them_ intently as they drove closer.

Juliet shook herself free of such nonsense. It was merely a big house, that's all, built a hundred years ago when the homes of the wealthy were meant to be imposing.

This sensible attitude carried her through to meeting the very pleasant owners of the house, Franklin and Charity Pumphrey, who were all courtesy and good manners as they welcomed their official intruders.

"I'm Detective Lassiter, and this is my partner Detective O'Hara." Carlton put his badge away. "I understand you occupy this floor only?"

Charity glanced at her husband, not _quite_ uncomfortable but alerting Juliet nonetheless. "That's correct. When we have company, we put them in rooms on the second floor, but we rarely get up to the third floor. I'm sure we won't even hear you moving around."

"We'll try not to disturb you," Juliet assured her. "I can't promise you won't notice when we leave at three a.m., but we'll be quiet."

Carlton asked what part of the first floor their rooms were in, and then they were shown to the stairs which led to the upper floors. He and Juliet carried their gear up, but Franklin and Charity stopped at the second floor landing.

"When your colleagues were here the other day," Franklin said, "they found the rooms at the southeast corner to have the best views of the Gray house."

"You don't want to show us?" Carlton inquired mildly. "Make sure we don't go astray?"

Franklin smiled. "You're police officers. I have complete faith in you. And anyway," he said, "our knees don't handle the stairs so well anymore."

"That's right," Charity said apologetically. "I hope you don't mind. Do you need anything? We generally retire early but you're welcome to anything in the kitchen, especially the coffeepot, and there's a fresh batch of cinnamon raisin bread on the counter."

"You're very generous," Juliet said. "Thank you."

With that, the Pumphreys rapidly descended the stairs, and Carlton The Ice King headed up to the third floor after the merest glance at Juliet to be sure she'd follow.

She held her smile.

_You're gonna have to talk to me _sometime_, badass._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Normally when Carlton experienced a sudden temperature drop, it was in the presence of an angry woman.

Victoria had been especially talented at controlling a room's climate with merely A Look, but both Chief Vick and Juliet were similarly skilled.

However, the temperature change he noted as he advanced down the wide hall to the southeast rooms was remarkable because he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with having pissed off a woman.

Not even Juliet. She'd been nothing but pleasant since his return, not that he was encouraging her or even reciprocating.

_Chicken._

He knew she was behind him, and he heard her mutter about how cold it was, and that was more proof _she_ wasn't the reason he was so chilled.

Well, old house, bad insulation, whatever. He had work to do. _They_ had work to do, and it didn't include any discussion of how he'd lost his mind a few days ago and kissed her.

The door to the room at the end of the hall was closed, and he turned the cold knob to open it. It resisted, but he knew it wouldn't be locked because the guys who did the recon had specifically recommended this room for the surveillance.

"Stuck?" Juliet asked, catching up.

"Not for long." He turned and pushed hard at the same time and the door gave way, revealing what seemed to be a large sitting room in the shadows.

Juliet set her bag down and found the light switch, illuminating the room enough for them to get a proper view.

Two large windows on the south wall featured drapes already pulled back, and the furnishings were in dark blue brocade and dark wood and dark everything. A man's room, he thought, but still too dark.

And damned cold. The fireplace on the east wall radiated its own coldness from the stone comprising it.

"Lights off," he said, and she obeyed. They didn't want anyone in the Grays' back yard looking up to see light where normally there was darkness.

They each went to separate windows to look down on the target house. "This is a great view," she commented.

"Let's check out the one next door." He'd noticed part of the driveway around the side of the house was obscured by a taller tree. "Maybe we should set up an extra camera in there."

This time she led the way, back into the ornate hall and down to the next room. This door stood open, and showed them an equally-blue brocade bedroom.

"I think the real reason they don't come up here is they hate the décor," he muttered.

Juliet laughed. "It's a bit heavy. Probably hasn't been redone since 1900."

Carlton went to the window and peered out. "Not much better here." Not much warmer either.

They checked out the other rooms—some open, some closed, all dusty and disused and quite posh. Cartavious Pumphrey had sunk some serious money into this place over a hundred years ago, and his descendants had clearly remained well-off.

All rooms inspected, they agreed their southeast sitting room was the best viewpoint.

He _could_ do this. He could be professional with his partner, whom he'd kissed the hell out of a few days ago in a moment (or three) of complete and utter madness.

Glancing at her as she looked out the window one more time, he thought _I'd do it again if I thought I'd survive_, because she was—even in this dim light—lovely and fresh and Juliet.

Turning on his heel, he headed into the hall. "Let's get set up."

"As you wish," she said mildly, keeping pace.

Something in the hall caught his eye and he paused; Juliet stopped beside him. "It's this house, isn't it."

A painting at least four feet wide and nearly as tall hung between two bedrooms. It depicted a young man standing before the mansion, from the front at the northeast corner. He was scowling at the unseen painter, his hand on the collar of an Irish setter. He looked as if he'd been caught by surprise rather than having had to pose for probably days on end maintaining that exact expression.

Behind young man and serene dog, the mansion rose as if protecting them both.

"Hope the painter got paid extra for that job," Carlton said in a low voice.

"Wonder who he is?"

"A Pumphrey scion," he decided. "The pride of the family and king of the Santa Barbara coastline."

Juliet was amused. "Nice taste in dogs too, although I'm not sure why he's got a death grip on that one."

The dog seemed perfectly calm, but the young man's grasp of the collar suggested he was just barely holding him back from lunging.

"Control issues," Carlton decided, and resumed their trek to the end of the hall.

Where the door to the sitting room was once again firmly closed.

Carlton looked at it, frowning.

Juliet cleared her throat. "Did you close that when we left?"

"I did not."

"Okay."

He opened the door—no resistance this time—and they stepped inside.

The lamp in the corner by the wingback chair was on.

Juliet looked at him. "I suppose you also didn't run back in and turn that on either."

"I did not," he repeated with asperity.

A few moments went by in silence as they stared at the lamp, and Carlton's mind ran through a dozen scenarios which were plausible but unlikely. If one considered sentient robo-squirrel invasions plausible.

Juliet spoke. "Should we assume Franklin came up here and turned it on and then closed the door and went back downstairs without us hearing him?"

Carlton looked directly at her, judging her tone along with his vague sense of unease.

She met his gaze readily.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Let's do that." If he could ignore having kissed her, he could certainly ignore a one-time anomaly involving a lit lamp and a closed door.

She nodded as she crossed the room to turn out the lamp.

They set up their cameras and tripods, each took a set of binoculars, and stationed themselves at the two windows. Dusk had turned to dark, and stars twinkled benevolently in the sky.

"It's only October," Juliet complained, trying to wrap her jacket more tightly around her. "It got up to 67 today. Why is it so cold?"

The chill was the kind to reach through to bone, and he considered offering her his jacket but even if she didn't refuse, it would just make _him_ colder, and she'd figure that out herself.

"I'll get the windbreakers out of the car," he offered.

Juliet shook her head. "I'll tough it out. Maybe the heat'll come on."

He doubted that, but said nothing, peering down into the yard again. One of the Grays pulled a lawn chair out of the garage and sat down to smoke a pipe.

"You think we're allowed to move furniture?" she asked after another few minutes.

He followed her gaze over to the nearest wingback chair. "Let's find out." He helped her move it to the window—it seemed to resist being lifted from its spot—and get it situated so she could sit but still see out the window and man the camera.

"Thanks. We'll take turns. Might help warm up, too."

She could be right about that, but he made no comment.

"Carlton, it'd be nice if you talked to me."

"I am talking to you." He took a photo of the pipe-smoking Gray. "That's Geoff Gray. He's the antiques dealer."

"I know who he is." She sounded patient, but he wouldn't look at her. "Carlton, come on."

Another man came out of the garage, and when he turned, the light from inside illuminated his face. He had a cigarette and carried a glass.

"That's Michael Gray," Carlton said neutrally. "He does the heavy lifting."

She sighed. "It's not going to kill you."

"Neither is not talking about things we don't need to discuss." He took another photo. "The sister is—"

"The sister is Helena," she interrupted, "and she keeps the books and works the front counter at the shop. Yes, I know this."

He was ragingly uncomfortable, but the side effect wasn't bad: the heat of embarrassment was at least driving back the chill of the room.

"They're all in their mid-to-late forties," she continued, "and have worked the business for three decades since inheriting it from their father. Anything else we need to recap for no damned reason?"

Carlton shot her a glare. "Look, O'Hara, what do you want from me?"

"A conver—"

"Besides that," he cut her off. "Some things don't need to be rehashed. Staying on point for the case is what's important."

"They're just having an after-dinner smoke. Look, here comes Helena with cake."

Indeed, the lady in question was carrying a small tray, and Michael Gray pulled up a chair for her to sit in after she distributed the treats.

"I don't think they're expecting stolen goods right this minute," Juliet added dryly.

The only answer he gave her was short. "Don't assume."

But she was persistent. "Partners are supposed to communicate."

_I am not communicating how I felt about kissing you._

"Some say it's crucial."

_So is pretending it didn't happen._

"Carlton, honestly."

_You are not ready for how honestly I want to kiss you again._

"Enough, O'Hara," he snapped, and at the same moment, something fell over on the mantel behind him.

They both jumped, and he went to see what it was. It was hard to see at first in the dim light, but he found it soon enough; a wooden carving of a dog, about four inches tall. It had fallen to its side, and when he used his penlight to see why, all he found was undisturbed dust where it had once stood.

Juliet was beside him. "What made it fall?"

He shrugged. "It likes things quiet," he said meaningfully, and she rolled her eyes.

"Fine. I'll go get the windbreakers, since it's not only the _room_ that's cold." She was gone before he could even think of a riposte.

Though if he had, it would have been "good one."

_You're an idiot._

No, he'd _been_ an idiot. Avoiding this conversation was not idiotic. Risking her wrath, which would be temporary, was smart.

Kissing her… _that_ had been idiotic.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Sunday evening, just past dusk. He'd knocked back three shots of bourbon—on a nearly-empty stomach during a melancholy mood—and a pleasant awareness of not being 100% in control of his faculties was creeping up on him._

_Now, Carlton could certainly handle a lot more liquor than that: he was a cop. Hell, he was an _Irish_ cop. But these had been downed in quick succession, and maybe he was slipping in his advancing age._

_His cell rang, and Juliet asked if she could come over and borrow his jack._

_For a moment he thought she meant Daniels._

_Amused, she clarified that she was about four blocks away with a flat tire and a missing jack, and she wanted to borrow the jack from his Fusion to put her spare on._

_Hell no, he told her, because his male ego forbade such a thing. However, he would bring the jack to her and change the tire himself._

_She said, "Well, you can _try_."_

_Properly challenged, he went down to the car, dragged out the jack, and headed into the night. _

_(He'd have walked a lot farther than four blocks for her, but that was irrelevant.)_

_Juliet was surprised when he arrived on foot. _

"_I'm probably over the legal limit," he explained. _

_She grinned. "Then you probably shouldn't be changing a tire either. Give me that."_

_Carlton easily kept the jack in his grasp, and Juliet—how did she always look so pretty, no matter what time it was or where they were or how she was dressed?—shook her head and let him get to to work._

"_This can't be safe, Carlton."_

_From his kneeling position, he eyed her. "There's no statute against drunk tire-changing."_

"_Not yet. How drunk are you?"_

"_Not enough to embarrass myself with a tire jack." _

"_Okay, partner." She was still amused._

"_You call me partner like it's a shield," he said, regretting it instantly. Jack the car, idiot. Jack the car. _

"_Come again?"_

_He concentrated on removing the tire._

_But Juliet the detective never gave up on anything she _really_ wanted to know. _

"_Carlton? What do you mean?"_

"_Nothing." _

"_Don't lie to me. What do you mean?"_

"_Nothing important," he amended, yanking the tire free._

_Juliet took it from him and set it down, and rolled the spare over. "I call you partner like it's a shield?"_

_He was tired. The alcohol wasn't being burned off by the physical activity. "To keep me in a box," he said shortly. "So I don't forget my place."_

_When he glanced up at her, she was staring at him, blue eyes wide with puzzlement. "Your _place_?"_

"_I'm not going to forget we're only partners, O'Hara." He put deliberate emphasis on her surname. "You don't have to keep reminding me."_

"_I wasn't," she protested. "I call you partner because you're… my partner. You're not in any box. There's not some _place_ for you to be in."_

_Carlton got the spare on and kept his mouth shut._

"_Carlton." Her voice was soft. "Partner is just about the best possible word. It means a lot more than friend."_

_Lugnut._

_Juliet waited._

_Lugnut._

"_Talk to me," she whispered._

_Lugnut. Lugnut._

_He tested the tire to be sure his three shots of bourbon hadn't just caused him to endanger her life before she could get a proper replacement, then lowered the Beetle back to the ground._

"_Done." He straightened up, collecting the jack and tire iron in as smooth a move as he could manage, but Juliet caught his arm and pulled hard and he stumbled to her, dropping the tire iron._

_The jack slipped and cut his finger; she noticed the blood before he did and grasped his hand._

_Carlton pulled it away, thinking _don't touch me, don't you touch me_—and Juliet was annoyed now. _

"_What is wrong with you?"_

"_This," he growled, and since she was close enough to kiss, and damned fragrant and lovely and dammit so very _Juliet_, he yanked her to him. "This," he repeated, before tugging her to him even closer, encircling her with his arms and kissing her deep and hard._

_He didn't know what he was doing but to be doing it felt so right, and Juliet's body pressed to his felt even better, and he wasn't so drunk that he didn't know she was kissing him back, because she was. Her lush mouth opened to his and he kissed her and learned her and tried to absorb her. _

_She let out a sigh as she pressed close to him—and that little sigh, of all things, scared the crap out of him._

_He let her go abruptly and watched as she put a shaking hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and stunned in the glow of the streetlamp._

_She might have called to him before he got very far down the block, but he couldn't hear over the pounding of his heart. _

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Thus, he concluded in the cold room on the third floor of the Pumphrey mansion, he was indeed an idiot. Too much bourbon, too many years of want, too much cowardice. Kissed his partner, skittered away like a crybaby, and now he was trapped with her in this icebox for the next six-plus hours hoping she'd just give up and write him off as a dysfunctional whackaloon with a likely drinking problem.

_Yay, me._

Nothing was happening behind the Grays' house. The siblings were eating cake and chit-chatting at the edge of the open garage.

Suddenly the cold intensified.

It was as if someone had opened a freezer behind him, and Carlton felt a cliché come to pass: the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Juilet was back, he decided. The old, well-constructed house had masked her approach down the hall and through the open door.

That was it. Juliet.

Slowly, he turned.

No one was there. The room was still and silent.

The door was closed.

The hair on the back of his neck jumped ship and ran off in terror.

He took a moment to breathe—to be sure his heart was even still beating.

_No more being an idiot tonight_.

He crossed the room to open the door.

Before his hand touched the knob, he heard a sound behind him. A shifting… a sighing.

Curtains. He must have stirred the curtains with his rapid movement.

Yes.

Or maybe Juliet _had_ come in, slipping silently into the dark room because she was angry with him, only now alerting him to her presence.

So… yes.

So… that was now _her_ hand settling on to his shoulder as the temperature dropped another ten degrees.

His breath caught as he turned his head.

He knew a lot of things about Juliet O'Hara. In long hours spent together he'd probably learned more about her than anyone alive.

And one of the things he knew about her very damned well was that she was always, always visible.

Unlike whoever was gripping his shoulder.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet, carrying a windbreaker for Carlton (wearing her own already), a plate of raisin bread and a thermos of coffee, was glad for the lights in the wide hall—dim though they were—to guide her way.

She was only mildly annoyed with Carlton now. She really did understand his reluctance to step onto this particular thin ice; it was just that he was so fearless about everything else. Carlton was the first to run toward trouble, and even in his personal life he'd shown great confidence, particularly in trying to save his marriage.

Would it make things easier if she told him she liked the kiss and wanted more? A lot more? Like maybe long-term more?

Possibly, but it might also send him running, and she couldn't risk that. As hard as he worked to save his marriage, he'd worked equally hard to remain remote in her first years as his partner. Too wounded by the outing of his relationship with Lucinda Barry, he was clearly determined to keep his new female partner at a sufficient emotional distance.

Which is why it was a bit ironic that he'd accused her of using the word 'partner' to keep _him_ at bay.

The painting caught her eye, and she paused to study the scowling expression of the Pumphrey scion. Charity, down in the kitchen as Juliet passed through, said it was Cartavious III, who was just eighteen when the painting was commissioned in 1920. Then she thrust the plate of raisin bread upon her, gave her the thermos and excused herself rapidly.

The woman was sweet but high-strung, she thought, and resolved to ferret out the reason for it some other time. Like daylight. In a warmer location.

Cartavious was a dark-eyed handsome youth despite his obvious ill temper, and she glanced at the equally handsome dog.

But then she realized, as she studied the pair, that the dog was simply standing next to his owner.

The cold around her deepened as what she saw took hold in her brain: Cartavious wasn't touching the dog's collar at all.

Juliet frowned. She was dead sure she and Carlton had both noted how tightly Cartavious had gripped the collar… wasn't she? Hadn't they?

Feeling a bit uncomfortable—because if she wasn't merely losing her mind, then she was being screwed with—she moved back from the painting and headed to the corner room.

_Why is that door closed?_ She'd barely formed the thought when it was yanked open from inside and Carlton hurtled out.

"Juliet!" he said breathlessly, and that was odd too: he rarely used her first name.

But she'd have to savor that later. "What is it? Did the Grays receive a shipment?" She started past him and he caught her arm to stop her advancement.

Looking full at him, she registered his state of shock. It was a rare sight, Carlton Lassiter nonplussed.

"What is it?" she repeated more gently, putting her own heebie-jeebies aside.

His eyes were huge but he steadied himself, taking one very deep breath and then another one before letting go of her arm. "Nothing. I just… did you close this door when you left?"

"You know I didn't."

Carlton's expression was unreadable. "Are Spencer and Guster around here somewhere?"

"Not that I know of. Why?"

Muttering that he was cracking up, he turned from her and returned to the room, pausing in the doorway briefly.

"Carlton," she persisted. "What _happened_?"

"I have no idea."

He wasn't going to talk about it. But as she watched, he opened the door wide and dragged the other wingback chair over in front of it. "Let's see the damn thing close _now_," he grumbled.

Hmm. Whatever he'd experienced, at least his natural irritability was returning. Good sign?

She set the plate on the wide windowsill near his camera, placing the thermos next to it. Offering the windbreaker, she waited for him to put on the extra layer of warmth. She'd ask what happened later, but right now she had a more urgent question.

"Um, that painting out there?"

He zipped up the jacket. "Angry young man clutching dog?"

She started to tell him, and then thought, _no, wait, let him see for himself. In case I imagined it._

"Come here," she said, and went back to the hall. Stopping in front of the portrait, she simply gestured and waited for his comment.

Carlton's eyebrows went up. "Huh."

"You see it?"

"I see he's smiling," he said slowly. "I don't remember him smiling before."

"No, I meant—" She stopped, heebie-jeebies back and cackling.

Damn if he wasn't right: Cartavious Pumphrey III was _smiling_.

"I meant the dog," she whispered.

Beside her, she could feel Carlton's rapid intake of breath.

Long moments passed while they stared at the painting of the smiling young man and the unrestrained dog.

Longer moments passed after that.

"O'Hara," he said firmly, "we are being played. Let's get back to work."

"Played? How? Someone's switching paintings to mess with us?" It came out in a near screech.

"Franklin and Charity." He went back to the sitting room and she followed. "Or the guys who did the recon on the—son of a bitch," he snapped.

Juliet didn't need him to spell it out: the lamp in the corner was on.

Now _she_ was aggravated, and stalked across the room to unplug the stupid thing once and for all.

But when she followed the cord back to the outlet, a new coldness settled down over her.

"Carlton."

"What?"

"It's not even plugged in." The end of the cord was a good two feet from the nearest outlet.

Carlton knelt beside her, and again his expressive blue eyes were huge.

But—again—he collected himself. Holding out a hand, he helped her rise with him, and then without a word he unscrewed the hot bulb from the lamp and set it on the floor against the wall.

With the room once again in darkness (_and, uh, _why_ exactly was that good_?), Juliet found herself standing closer to Carlton than she normally would.

"If someone's screwing around with us," she ventured cautiously, "who is it?"

"I don't know." His hand brushed hers as he turned slightly, and she resisted the urge to grab it and hold on. "But we're here to do a job and we're going to do it."

Okay. He was right. They would work.

"Coffee will help, then." She went to the other window and picked up the thermos. "You don't mind sharing the cup? Charity wanted to give me another one but I wasn't sure I could carry everything without dropping it."

She barely even noticed him reaching up to steady her shaking hand as she poured, but her heart filed the kind gesture away for later.

"You first." She managed to hand him the cup without spilling. "She said the painting is of Cartavious III when he was eighteen."

"Teenager," he commented. "That explains the mood swings."

Juliet stared at him a moment and then laughed, because it was the funniest thing she'd heard in hours and ten times funnier because it came from Carlton, who was probably as spooked as she was but could still snark like a pro.

He smiled at her over the cup and drank it down, then poured another for her. "Drink up." He reached for the plate. "Generous with coffee, stingy with raisin bread?"

"Come on. I thought she cut the slices really big," she protested.

He held the plate up so she could see it better, and there was just one slice. "Don't tell me," he said, frowning at _her_ frown.

"There were two." She sounded weak. "And no, I didn't scarf one down on the way up here."

"Teenagers have big appetites," he said, but not quite so confidently. Breaking the slice, he gave her one half and took a bite out of the other. "Are we _sure_ it's not Spencer messing with us?"

"Pretty sure. I didn't tell him about this case and I think he and Gus were going to something called _Freddy's_ _Halloween The 13th_. Supposed to be all the _Halloween_ movies alternating with _Friday the 13th_ and _Nightmare On Elm Street_."

He cocked one eyebrow. "Can their lungs stand that much screaming?"

She shrugged. "I think Shawn was taking along an oxygen tank to be on the safe side."

"Ah." He glanced out the window, where the Grays were stirring; Helena got up and Michael put her chair away, and Geoff paced the drive slowly.

"Carlton, please tell me what happened while I was gone." She said it very quietly, and prayed he would answer even if it was something she didn't really want to hear.

Without looking at her, he said just as quietly, "I realized the door was closed, and as I was about to open it, I felt a hand on my shoulder."

She absorbed the impossibility of his words: they were alone up here. They'd looked in every room and no one else was here or could have come into the room while she was gone without him knowing.

But Carlton wouldn't lie, and he wasn't gullible, and if he said it happened, _it happened_.

In profile, he was very still, and while she couldn't quite make out the exact shade of blue in those all-expressive eyes, she knew for him to tell her meant he trusted her.

At least with this. As a partner.

The way _she_ meant it.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The room remained cold and dark. No doors closed, no lamps lit, no vanishing slices of raisin bread. They stayed where they were—no checking the painting for changes they'd surely imagined—and watched the Grays.

She and Carlton finished off the coffee purely for its warmth by ten. She needed to pee desperately by half past ten.

"Here's a visitor," he said, as a man cleared the tree which partly obscured the driveway and rounded the corner to the back of the house. Helena had long since gone in, but the Gray brothers were still loitering.

She came to his window—the temperature was at least one degree warmer next to him—even though she could see the tableau perfectly well from her own. "Looks like Sabin Findley."

"Yep, that's him."

He was known for moving questionably-legal items between Mexico and Nevada, and had darkened the doors of the SBPD more than once for questioning which always led nowhere.

Carlton's grin was mirthless. "I'd love to catch this guy."

"So would I, but so far they're just shaking hands."

Findley refused a chair when offered, standing close to Geoff Gray and talking for a few minutes. A few hand gestures later, he glanced at his watch and Gray did the same, and he nodded firmly and strode off.

"He'll be back," Carlton deduced.

"So will I." At his glance, she explained, "I've got to find a bathroom."

"We passed one near the head of the stairs, if I recall." He nodded his head toward the door. "And, uh, if that's closed when you come back, just go home."

She tried to be amused and failed, but managed a smile for him anyway.

The hallway seemed a lot longer than before, and she caught herself hesitating before passing open doorways.

_You're an idiot_, she warned herself. _There is _no one_ up here_.

_That might be the problem_, whispered the ten-year-old Juliet inside her head.

She banished the frightened child to the recesses of her mind, and despite feeling a bit like JoBeth Williams in the ever-lengthening hallway in _Poltergeist_, finally reached her destination.

All brass and marble, the large cold bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the house, albeit less dusty than the rest of what they'd seen. Juliet made quick work of her problem, not wanting to be on her own too long.

(She had avoided looking at the painting on the way, but could not suppress a shiver as she passed.)

Washing her hands, she thought about how to get Carlton back on track to the incident she wanted to discuss—and wanted very much to _repeat_—and knew she had to do it tonight, because this was the one time he could not flee. They had to be here, and they had to be here together, and no little chill in the air and late-night imaginings could get in the way.

Pleasing warmth infused her as she remembered his kiss: so very sudden and delicious and eye-opening and hope-engendering. Recalling the heat of his body brought heat to hers now.

Juliet glanced into the mirror, and that warmth fell away immediately and turned to ice again.

There was a young woman behind her.

Sobbing violently.

Covered with blood.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet raced into the room and into his arms and Carlton held her, not having to ask if something happened, because _duh_. He breathed in her scent and held her tightly, because that's what she needed—no matter how much his instincts were telling him to go and slay the beast.

After a few moments, after her trembling subsided, she took a step back—not far—and with her hands still clutching his arms, said relatively evenly, "If I have to pee again before three a.m., you are coming into the damned bathroom with me."

Carlton blinked. That was taking partner-bonding a bit further than he was prepared to go. "What happened?"

She looked down, as if speaking to his windbreaker rather than to him. "I saw a woman in the mirror. She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub crying. I couldn't hear it, but I could see it, and she had blood all over her clothes."

"She was injured?" Or dead, he wondered, cursing the way this night was affecting his imagination.

"I didn't stop to ask. When I turned around, there was no one there." She shuddered slightly. "Carlton, tell me I'm not crazy. Please."

"You're no crazier than I am," he assured her, goosebumps on his own skin.

"Not sure that helps," she tried to joke.

"What did she look like?"

Juliet frowned—still not moving away—and took a moment to think about it. "She was dressed like a maid. She had a frilly cap and a long dress." She shivered again. "Young, too. Just a girl."

"So…" he began. "We're agreeing it was…"

He couldn't say it. In his head, it was a shout. But he couldn't say it out loud.

"A ghost." Juliet sighed. "Or I really am insane."

"You're not insane," he said, even while thinking it might be better if she was, because if she wasn't…

Never mind.

"So…" he began again. "Do we think she's the one… no." He drew himself up. Enough was enough, and this wasn't helping either one of them. "Let's not speculate."

"We have to speculate." Juliet put herself between him and the window. "We're cops. We're _supposed_ to speculate."

"We're _supposed_ to be watching the Grays."

"You're too good at shutting your mind off," she muttered.

Carlton was stung. "When it's necessary, yes."

"Sometimes it's not necessary." Juliet crossed her arms, glaring at him. The light from the window gave her a sort of halo. "Sometimes a person is just afraid of having a certain conversation."

"Dammit, Juliet, we are _working_ here. And when did we quit talking about the blood-spattered woman in the mirror?"

"Juliet," she echoed. "That's twice tonight."

He clenched his jaw. "Grays. Down there. About to make some kind of deal with Sabin Findley. Our _jobs_."

She whispered, "Our _lives_."

His heart was pounding and he felt almost clammy and when a door slammed hard somewhere down the hall they both jumped.

He grabbed her arm and she grabbed his and they stared at each other for one second before joint cop training kicked in and they ran out of the room to find the source of the noise.

"It was close," he murmured, hand automatically on his weapon, knowing she was doing the same.

The hall seemed dimmer than before. Colder too.

How in the hell could it be _so_ damned cold?

"There," she said. The second door down was closed, and he knew it had been open before.

"It was a bedroom. Big red velvet canopy bed." On the west wall, he recalled. Closet on the east wall.

They stood on either side, weapons at the ready.

"If that's Franklin or Charity," Juliet said calmly, "I'm going to be awfully sorry later about shooting them."

He gave her a grin, and on three, opened the door fast and stepped back again.

No sounds came from inside.

Juliet reached in and hit the light switch, and the red velvet room came to life.

Carlton swiftly checked out the large empty closet, and Juliet had the strength of mind to look under the bed. "Nothing. Windows closed."

"No breezes," she agreed, but wasn't happy about it.

They left the room—leaving the light on in unspoken agreement—and Juliet hesitated at the threshold.

He realized she was looking down toward the bathroom where she'd seen the crying maid, and so he went there directly, because if he couldn't be strong for Juliet tonight, there was little point in being strong for anyone. She followed without a word.

Flooding that room with light as well, he inspected it—even behind the shower curtain, although it was freaking hard to do that—and looked back to where she stood in the hall. "Clear."

She relaxed… slightly. "I left the light on when I ran out before."

Carlton paused. "I didn't want to hear that."

"Sorry," she said, sounding like a miserable little girl.

"Not your fault. And since you're here to stand guard," he muttered, "excuse me a minute." He closed the door in her startled face, because he'd had a lot of coffee too, and he might as well take this opportunity to answer Mother Nature's demands.

"Hurry up," she called nervously through the door.

"Beyond my control," he called back, and thought he heard her laugh, which was a good sign.

Zipped and at the sink, he washed his hands and didn't look in the mirror. He didn't want to, and he wasn't going to.

He _didn't_, turning away despite an overwhelming need to _know_.

(Because he _did_ know. He _knew_ Juliet hadn't imagined a damned thing.)

But at the door, in a terrifying replay of his moments alone in the sitting room earlier, he heard that same sighing, shifting sound somewhere behind him.

It was such a cold sound… a cold and terribly _lonely_ sound.

_I am not looking._

His veins were full of ice. He was surprised his hand didn't shatter when it touched the freezing knob, and nearly as surprised when the door opened smoothly to release him.

Juliet turned, relief evident on her lovely but too-pale face.

He said nothing about the sound, and the cold, and the fear. It wouldn't help her, and some things a man _should_ consider awhile in the privacy of his addled mind.

They checked the rest of the rooms, knowing without discussing it that they'd find nothing but dust and unrevealed secrets in any of them. They left all the lights ablaze, and then silently walked back to their surveillance room.

The hallway was so long, he thought. It seemed to get longer every time they were in it. He concentrated on the scant warmth provided by Juliet's nearness, because that was the one comfort in all this madness.

She said, "Guess we're running up their utility bill, leaving all those lamps and chandeliers on."

He found a smile. "Guess I don't care." Together they looked back down the hall, where all the rooms were wide open and light cascaded forth. It should have had a warming effect.

Except… except one door was closed.

Speaking was an effort. "Did we miss a room?"

Juliet shook her head. "We didn't miss any."

Yet one door near the far end of the hall was firmly closed, and no light could be seen from underneath.

"We didn't miss _any_," she repeated faintly.

Dread overtook him—or tried; it didn't succeed completely until he looked at the painting.

It was so freakishly cold now that he could see his own breath, yet he was utterly _compelled_ to look at the painting.

"Oh my God," Juliet whispered, genuine horror in each syllable.

Her icy hand slipped into his, and he held it without reservation.

Cartavious was smiling broadly.

But more importantly, much _much_ more importantly, the white shirt he wore was now drenched in bright red blood.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

As one, they left the hall and returned to the sitting room without exchanging another word.

Juliet was cold inside and out now. She didn't know what was happening, but if it was an elaborate prank it was definitely working. By three a.m. she would be really pissed off about it, but right now she was too busy being terrified.

They watched the Grays, although Juliet couldn't concentrate on anything outside the room she stood in now.

"Carlton," she whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Before tonight, did you believe in ghosts?"

He didn't answer at first, but she knew he would.

"I believed… there were things which couldn't be explained, but not for me." He glanced at her. "That is, ghosts were for other people."

"That's more open-minded than I thought you'd be."

"Eh. Age." He jammed his hands in his pockets. "Thing is, we see all of this stuff in the movies. Most of what's happened here tonight could be—"

"Don't you dare say imagination," she warned him.

"No. But faked. The temperature, the door, the lights—even what you saw in the mirror."

"And the painting?" He _couldn't_ have a rational explanation for that.

But he nodded. "Maybe. It'd be a complicated scam, but it's not like we saw it changing right in front of us. Truth is, almost everything we've seen could be a setup."

Juliet watched him, noting his diffidence. "But."

He let out a breath. "But that hand on my shoulder. That was real. That wasn't my imagination, it wasn't any damned muscle spasm, and I can't explain it."

She shivered, remembering his expression as he bolted from the room. "I always believed they were possible—ghosts. Houses being haunted by people who couldn't let go for some reason. But I guess, like you, I thought most of it really was imagination. The mind seeing what it wanted to see. And people are messed up, Carlton. They seek out this stuff and sometimes it backfires on them."

"The only trouble I seek out is provided by the _living_," he said flatly.

"I hear that." She shivered again, from the inside out this time. They stood in silence by his window—she wasn't going to get any farther away from him than that now—and watched the Grays.

"Hurry it up, Findley," he muttered. "Sooner you come back with your stolen goods, the sooner we can get out of here."

She agreed completely. "And you thought having to talk to _me_ would be the scariest thing about this evening."

Carlton gave her a speculative look.

"What?"

He shook his head.

"Carlton, _what_?"

It came out in a mutter. "Makes me wonder if this is how you planned it."

Her jaw dropped. "Oh, now, I _know_ you're joking."

He shrugged. "Maybe you knew there'd be something about this freaktastic house you could work with."

"I don't need to invent apparitions and have someone switch out paintings to make you talk to me." When he glanced at her again, she added coolly, "I have a service weapon for that."

He arched one brow. "Threatening an officer of the law is a criminal offense, O'Hara."

"So is refusing to cooperate with an officer of the law."

"Oh, you're accusing me of obstruction now?"

"Absolutely. All I want to do is discuss an incident which we really need to discuss, and you keep refusing."

He glared out the window. "Because it shouldn't be discussed."

"Can we discuss _why_ it shouldn't be discussed?"

Carlton let out a frustrated breath. "No, because that's self-evident."

"It's not." She felt as frustrated now as he sounded. "You kissed me, Carlton, and then you walked away. No: you _ran_ away. And I want to know—"

"I know what you want to know!" He was fierce, turning his glare to her now. "You want to make sure it's not going to happen again, that it's not going to be a problem, that you don't have to do anything about it. Well, you don't. We don't need to talk about any of that because I _already know_."

Juliet stared at him in consternation. She'd feared this was his mindset. "You don't know what you think you know."

"Where am I wrong? We're partners. I screwed up once before, and you don't want me to screw things up for you too. So if we just drop this pointless 'conversation' now, you can stop worrying about all of that and we can go back to doing our jobs."

"You don't know anything," she retorted. "You keep telling me what I think but you're wrong. You're so sure your negative view of everything is the only view that you're missing out on something really important."

He stepped nearer, supremely annoyed. "Our _partnership_ is really important, O'Hara, at least to me. I don't intend to be the instrument of its destruction."

"You won't be, and our partnership is important to me too, and stop calling me O'Hara when you think I'm getting too close!"

"It's habit!" he protested. "And I didn't say it wasn't important to you; I just said—"

At the other window, the camera and tripod fell over with a crash, hitting the wingback chair, pieces scattering.

Juliet lost it: she yelled at the room, "Stop interrupting!" She felt Carlton staring at her, but she barreled on, "Every time we start to get somewhere with this stupid argument, you interrupt!"

There was silence. Deep cold silence.

"Okay," Carlton said slowly. "That was int—"

He stopped, and she understood why.

It was the glow which brought him up short.

A deep, dark red glow.

Maybe it was only shadows so black they seemed red. Juliet couldn't interpret what she was seeing.

But the shadow—deep and black—expanded and moved and shifted in a way that no shadow should behave.

It took the form of… a person? All shadows, no substance.

Next to her, Carlton had frozen, but then so had she. They were both unable to look away from the… living… shape, which shifted and morphed some fifteen feet away near the window, almost but not quite lit by the moonlight beyond.

Breathing, she forced herself to remember, was _necessary_.

Yet it was incredibly difficult when even her lungs felt like blocks of ice.

"Right," Carlton suddenly snapped, grasping Juliet's arm. "We're getting some answers _now_."

Given his tight grip, she had no say as to whether she followed him or not, although certainly going with Carlton was preferable to remaining here alone.

In the doorway, he turned to the dark and living shadow and said, "We'll be back, gasbag."

The flicker of triumph she felt faded fast, because they didn't get far.

They couldn't.

The black/red shape/shadow _thing_ was in the hall between them and the stairwell.

The chandelier was behind it, far too dim now, and Juliet could see through the shadow, and that was terrifying too.

It wasn't like smoke or fog.

It was alive.

It was evil.

Carlton slid his hand down to clasp hers and she felt his solid thereness and even though she knew he was terrified too, they were _together_.

"The painting," he whispered.

It was as if her head weighed a thousand pounds: she could barely move it.

The Pumphrey mansion was dark and foreboding and the skies were murky and there was _no one standing beside the dog_.

No one.

Cartavious was no longer in the painting.

Juliet couldn't hear her own heartbeat anymore: it had stopped. Surely it had stopped.

The shadow whispered.

It was half-groan, half-hissing… something cold and dark and from a faraway place of desolation.

There were no words she could understand, but she picked up the feelings.

Anger. Betrayal. Hate. Sharp, acrid and alive.

_Alive_.

The only warmth in her body now, the only warmth at all, was where her hand was locked tightly with Carlton's.

The living shadow moved… twisted… took on a more definite shape, and she didn't have to _wonder_ what shape it would be. She already knew.

A man.

_That_ man.

The man missing from the painting.

And in the next instant, he was coming at her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Here's what he knew.

He knew this couldn't be happening.

He knew Cartavious Pumphrey III had been dead a hundred years.

He knew people didn't vanish from paintings.

He knew strange black mists which weren't smoke and weren't shadows didn't move from room to hallway without warning and certainly couldn't physically hurt a living person.

He knew he was terrified. With the second-to-last part of his working brain, he knew his terror was about to incapacitate him.

But Juliet was at his side, and her safety, and her life, and her whole _being_, was the treasure in his world.

So the most important thing he knew—with the _last_ part of his working brain—was that when the pulsating shadow solidified and launched itself at Juliet, _she_ was the one person he would absolutely always do his utmost to protect.

Keeping his left hand firmly wrapped around hers, he raised his weapon and fired straight into the middle of the advancing evil.

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Silence.

Empty air around them.

Just their breathing. No other sounds.

Heartbeats thundered. Lungs labored for air.

The temperature… _rose_.

Carlton turned and looked at the painting.

The scowling young man was back at the dog's side.

Without a word, Carlton shot the painting. Aiming unerringly for Cartavious' heart, he shot the oil portrait which had hung in this house for nearly a hundred years.

Twice.

The painting shuddered a moment before falling to the floor with a crash, and somewhere around them they heard a long, drawn-out sigh, or a gasp, or… a giving up.

**. . .**

**. . . .**

**. . . . .**

He pulled her down the hall the rest of the way to the stairs, not speaking. His grip on her hand was as exactly as tight as her grip on his, and they remained thus as they swiftly descended to the first floor.

She wanted him to stop and tell her what just happened, even if it was a cranky disbelieving claim of denial. She wanted to hear his voice telling her—dismissively if necessary—that she'd just imagined nearly being swallowed up by some… _shadow_…

Halfway down the stairs, within sight of the first floor landing, she made a sound, the best she could approximate as "Wait."

He stopped, one step below her, his gaze raking her over. "Are you okay?"

"No."

Carlton did the perfect thing: he reached up and touched her face and said, "You will be."

That single touch to her cold cheek—his hand impossibly warm and gentle—soothed her immensely.

"You will be," he repeated. "But we need answers."

He tugged at her hand again, down the rest of the stairs and in the direction of the Pumphreys' bedroom.

Franklin was approaching in the hallway, his eyes wide and startled. Charity trailed behind him looking terrified; both of them were in their robes and looked to be freshly and unwillingly awake.

"I thought I heard shots," he started.

Carlton interrupted brusquely. "What in _the hell_ is the history of this house?"

Franklin blinked, and Juliet watched him exchange looks with Charity. "What happened?"

"You tell us," Carlton shot back. "And tell us now."

The man sighed, running a hand through his wispy white hair.

"It's complicated," Charity said uneasily. "It was such a long time ago."

Juliet felt a flash of anger. "No, it's _now_. _Just_ now. Upstairs. Tell us."

"Let's sit down." Franklin made sure Carlton was going to let him pass (Juliet wasn't sure _she_ would have), and led the way to the kitchen, where Charity began bustling around starting the kettle and getting mugs for tea.

Carlton sat—only then releasing her hand, which she immediately missed—and rubbed his temples. Juliet figured they were at the same level of psychological exhaustion, because _she_ was wiped out.

"Tell me about the gunfire," Franklin pleaded as he sat across from them.

"Tell me about that psycho in the painting."

Juliet was about to add 'don't screw with us when we're testy,' but Franklin must have figured it out on his own. He tightened his robe belt, sighed again, and sat back in the chair.

"I assume you… dammit, I hoped… it'd been awhile and I hoped he'd leave you alone. I'm sorry." He sounded plaintive. Embarrassed.

Carlton just gave him the classic icy blue Get On With It stare.

"He died in 1920. He—"

Juliet cut in, speaking to Charity. "You said that was when the painting was commissioned."

Charity fumbled with a potholder. "Yes. He… died just a few weeks after it was completed."

"How did he die? No, let me guess." Carlton's tone was acid. "It involved a large amount of blood on his shirt."

Franklin let out another sigh. "He was murdered."

"It wasn't murder," Charity protested. "That girl was defending herself."

Juliet shivered, because she already knew who the girl was. "The maid?"

Now Franklin looked surprised. "You saw her?"

"Everyone sees her." Charity set the mugs down sharply. "Everyone who ever goes up to that floor sees her."

Carlton turned his blue glare on her. "You might have mentioned this a few hours ago."

She huffed. "It's not exactly something you bring up in casual conversation."

"Because this approach is better? Good call, lady."

"Please," Franklin intervened. "Let's stay on point. Cartavious was a troubled young man. He had problems with his temper and by today's standards, I think he'd be called bi-polar. His brother was my grandfather." He waited for Charity to give him his tea before adding, "He was the last person to bear the name Cartavious."

_Which is no big loss_, Juliet thought, and suspected Carlton was thinking it too.

"It's good it died with him," Charity snipped most _un_charitably.

Franklin held up a hand to stop his wife from saying more. "He was… disturbed. From the age of ten until his death, he was mostly confined to the third floor. He wasn't good in mixed company, but his father, Cartavious the second, wanted to keep him at home as long as possible."

Carlton looked into the mug of tea Charity gave him as if he'd much prefer it contained whiskey. "The room we're using was his favorite?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I really thought he'd leave you be tonight. I thought with two of you there, he'd stay away."

Juliet was surprised at the chill in her own voice. "Exactly how 'active' is your great uncle?"

Charity sat down with her own mug, sliding one to Juliet. "He's busiest at night. He never ventures lower than the third floor."

"And you didn't think cops doing night surveillance would need to know about him?"

"How do you bring it up?" Franklin asked helplessly. "Pardon me, but our house is haunted? You might have thought we were in cahoots with the Grays."

Her mouth opened but nothing came out. _The idiocy…_

Carlton had words, however. "Your reluctance to deliver potentially embarrassing news just cost you three bullet holes in your precious house. Two of them in the damn painting, and I don't care how long it takes me to pay that off, it's already worth it."

Franklin was shocked. "You shot the painting?"

"The bastard went after my partner," he said tightly.

Juliet heard the conviction in his tone. She heard it in her heart as well as in the air around her and she thought two things in order: one, _this really happened because he saw it too_, and two, _he took down Cartavious for me_.

Not because they were partners, but because he was _hers_.

The last of her inner chill dissipated like mist as the sun comes up, and she reached over and put her hand on his, in full view of the Pumphreys, and _screw anybody who said a word about it_.

"It was an evil painting." Charity was defiant. "That young man was evil."

"He was _troubled_," Franklin argued.

"What happened? Who killed him?" Carlton turned his hand to clasp hers, his grasp possessive in a way she liked very much.

Franklin countered, "What happened up there?"

"Doors slamming, lights going off, the temperature roughly ten below zero, stuff falling over. Somebody touched Carlton, I saw the maid in the mirror, and the painting—" Juliet's testy reply faltered.

Carlton glanced at her, squeezing her hand. "The painting kept changing, and he… he came out of it." He stopped, taking a breath, but went on impatiently before they could speak. "You probably already know all his tricks. It was a busy night. Now stop jerking us around and tell us what in the hell happened to him!"

Franklin swallowed.

Charity answered instead. "What I heard was that he terrorized the maids, and most of them refused to go up there. But one day he tricked a new maid into bringing him something to eat."

"Ebbie Crider," Franklin said softly.

"Yes. Cartavious attacked her, but she fought back and ended up stabbing him in the chest with the knife from his own dinner tray." She sipped her tea slowly, as if bolstering herself.

"It broke her, my father said." Franklin pushed his mug away, restless. "All these stories got handed down within the family but we don't talk about them outside. Ever. You'll respect our privacy, I hope."

"You didn't respect our right to be prepared for this," Juliet retorted.

Carlton persisted, "What happened to Ebbie?"

Charity repeated her husband's words. "It broke her. She ran to the bathroom and locked herself in and sobbed for hours until the police finally forced the door open. She was sixteen and very sensitive, she'd just killed the grandson of the wealthiest man in town after he attacked her, and she couldn't cope."

"She ended up institutionalized," Franklin said sadly, "and was dead before she turned twenty."

Juliet felt goosebumps, and Carlton squeezed her hand again. "So the memory of… her anguish… is sort of imprinted on that room."

Charity nodded. "That's what I think. And Cartavious, well, he spent his whole life here, and the third floor was his kingdom. He didn't like to share, he craved attention, and he was an evil little son of a bitch."

They all blinked, and Franklin gave her an admonishing look.

She was again defiant. "Well, Ebbie wasn't the only maid he attacked. You just don't like to talk about it."

"Of course I don't like to talk about it! He's been dead ninety-three years, Ebbie's been dead nearly that long, and what's the point of rehashing old trouble? Anyway, who knows? With today's therapy, he might have been rehabilitated!"

"Franklin Boniface Pumphrey, you are a silly old man, and I do not…" Charity cut herself off, grumbling into her mug.

He was unfazed. "I just thought with you there…"

It took a second, but Juliet realized Franklin had directed his plaintive remark to Carlton. "With him there?"

"I thought _you'd_ be safe if he was there."

They both looked at him.

Charity again spoke for her husband. "You said he came out of the painting. We heard that once before, from guests a long time ago. A pair of young women, friends of our daughter's." For all her boldness a few moments ago, now she was the one hesitating. "They slept in separate rooms and Cartavious appeared to the one who'd chosen his old bedroom. She was… she was traumatized. She left the house the next morning and never spoke to our daughter again."

"We thought you'd protect her if there was trouble," Franklin said, as if that made everything all right.

Carlton said flatly, "I did. But assuming none of us are insane, and all of this is real, there's no way a bullet through a… a shadow, or a painting, is going to stop some… spirit who's been hanging around for a century."

Franklin rubbed his face. "We've tried everything. Priests, shamans, mediums. He won't go."

"We should burn the place down." Charity stood up and turned away, but the tone in her voice made it clear she was dead serious.

"We're not doing any such thing. We'll seal up the third floor before we do that."

She grumbled something about that being a good idea too.

Juliet drank tea and tried to absorb everything from the last half hour, but there was too much. She was safe now, and so was Carlton, and concentrating on those facts would have to do.

Carlton got up, gazing down at Juliet. "I'll go get our gear. We're done here tonight."

She was on her feet in an instant. "You're not going up there alone."

"You're not going at all."

Glaring at him, she said, "If the word 'partner' is a _shield_, then we'll both use it."

His large blue eyes reflected uncertainty and then gradual acceptance.

To the Pumphreys, she said decisively, "You stand at the bottom of the steps and listen for any signs we're in trouble. You got it? No cowering down here waiting to see who wins. If we need help, you get some. Stat."

They nodded, looking much older than their years, and she and Carlton—hands clasped—went up the stairs, back to Cartavious' domain.

It really was warmer now. There was no sense of dread anymore.

At the top, Carlton turned right instead of left. "Let's get these lights off."

They stayed together, looking in each room, turning off the lights as they went.

In front of the door that was closed, Carlton hesitated.

Juliet knew, somehow, that it had been Cartavious' bedroom, and she knew that right now, he wouldn't be in there in any form. Still, she couldn't help but draw in a sharp breath when Carlton abruptly grasped the knob and pushed the door open.

The darkness inside, deep as it was, held no implied threat this time. Nothing moved, nothing whispered. A sliver of moonlight through the drawn drapes showed everything still and simply… old.

Now that Cartavious had retreated, it was startling to realize how much dread had been there from the beginning, from the moment they'd first set foot on this floor hours ago.

But now, this was just a dark, dusty bedroom.

"Good," Carlton muttered as if she'd spoken the words aloud, and they moved on.

With only the hall lights and stairwell chandelier left, they returned to the southeast sitting room.

The painting, with its broken frame, still leaned against the wall on the floor. Juliet went toward it, but Carlton pulled her back. "Don't. Don't touch anything of his."

But _he_ went closer, pulling a penknife out of his pocket and digging the bullets out of the wall, knocking bits of plaster down and onto the dusty surface of the painting.

"They should leave it just where it is," she said, and it felt perversely good to suggest what amounted to disrespect.

"Doubt they'll be running up here to check on it."

Probably not.

The sitting room felt… normal. Juliet went to pick up the debris from the fallen camera and tripod, taking a moment to retrieve the light bulb from the floor and replacing it in the lamp Cartavious had preferred lit.

Carlton was at the window, where he paused to watch the Gray house. "Hey, get your camera going. Findley just came back."

He was already taking pictures, and with the video camera running as well, the two of them—with a curious sense of detachment, because the job which had brought them here was simply an inconvenience now—caught Sabin Findley handing what appeared to be an antique carved wooden box to Geoff Gray, who inspected its contents while Findley in turn inspected the contents of a large manila envelope. The envelope appeared to be full of cash. The box appeared to be full of bags of white powder.

Getting out his cell phone while the two men had a pleasant post-transaction chat, Carlton called in his recommendation that someone pick up Mr. Findley before he got too far, and sit on the Gray house before Mr. Gray could dispose of the cash.

Juliet felt utterly bemused. According to her watch, it was just past eleven p.m.

Three hours in this house. In Cartavious' playground.

She went back to collecting pieces of the tripod and Carlton packed up his equipment, and as he zipped the camera bag, he said, "You were right, by the way."

"About what?" She stood up, brushing off her slacks.

He stood at the window, half-lit by the moon. "I _didn't_ think there could be anything more terrifying than talking about that kiss."

Ohhh….

Carlton looked across at her, silent.

This was a much better variety of goosebumps.

"What do you think now?"

"I think maybe it's time for me to let you tell me what _you_ think."

She'd been about to tell him when Cartavious interrupted that last time.

Stepping over the bag, Juliet went closer. He was utterly motionless, but the fear radiating off of him was the kind she could manage now.

"I think I'd like you to kiss me again, Carlton."

He swallowed. "Is that what you were trying to tell me I didn't know?"

Juliet nodded.

Carlton was still motionless. "I'm not drunk, but I could be under the influence of post-traumatic stress."

"Then we're on equal ground," she said softly, and took the final step into his arms. Reaching up to cup his lean face, she drew him down. His hands went to her waist but he didn't move.

_This_ could not be paralyzing him. Not after what they'd just been through.

Juliet kissed him, and broke the spell, for as soon as her lips touched his, he opened himself to her. She felt it, in the way all those open doors had poured light into the hall earlier: Carlton was not resisting. He was finally letting his heart talk to hers.

Their first kiss had been about surprise and _ohhhhh I want more_ but this kiss was about already having more and merely accepting it.

His arms encircled her tightly, and his mouth on hers was both a completion and a beginning, as well as wickedly delicious.

She would never have expected the room she'd been terrified in to be the same room where her future lover's kisses were making her want to be naked in his bed… or here in the wingback chair.

Carlton's hands were in her hair, and his tongue was driving her mad; sweet explorations had turned to fiery need almost instantly.

Their bodies were fused as she kissed his hungry mouth voraciously and when he groaned out her name against the skin of her throat, the pure ardor in his voice nearly made her knees buckle.

"He wasn't going to take you from me," he said hoarsely, and Juliet stilled herself.

She could feel his heart pounding, they were wrapped so closely together.

"I didn't even know you were mine, but I wouldn't let him take you."

Juliet kissed him hard. "I wouldn't have gone anywhere without you, _partner_."

Carlton squeezed her, sighing into her hair.

"But let's get out of here, okay? We have more talking to do after we get the photos and video turned in."

He agreed, and they parted slowly to put the room to rights and gather the bags.

In the hall, approaching the stairs (giving the fallen painting a wide berth), he looked at the stairwell wall.

She followed his gaze. His gunshot into Cartavious' black and evil shape should have put the bullet somewhere in that gold and blue paper.

Without even speaking, they set everything down and began searching; given where they both knew they were standing, the bullet's trajectory could not have strayed from a fairly small area, and certainly not down the hall—although Carlton searched anyway.

After some minutes, they looked at each other.

"It's not here," she said.

"It has to be. He was… gas," he finished helplessly. "A shadow with substance, but not the kind of substance which could be stopped by a bullet."

"You aimed at his heart." Or where his heart would have been, if he'd had a heart at all. "And you don't miss."

Still he protested. "It was a _shadow's_ heart. That bullet is here somewhere." He pulled the other two out of his jacket pocket. "Like these."

Juliet felt a certainty which surprised her. "By the time he was back in the painting, there was nothing left for you to destroy."

Carlton's expression was hard to read. His natural skepticism was coming back, and he was beginning to doubt what she knew he couldn't deny even to himself.

"We don't have to understand it, Carlton." She touched his arm. "We just have to accept it's true."

The blue of his eyes deepened, and she felt those good goosebumps again. "Like you wanting me to kiss you?"

Juliet smiled, and the goosebumps did not fade. "Exactly. Now let's go, so you can give me what I want."

"Here's an hors d'oeuvre," he murmured, and scooped her nearer suddenly, his mouth closing over hers in a hot and possessive kiss which again weakened her knees and left her gasping.

It was difficult to pick up their gear again after that, difficult to concentrate on getting down the stairs without falling.

Neither of them noticed the sitting room door slowly closing before they were even out of sight.

And down in the Grays' driveway, moments before the first of several police cars arrived, Geoff Gray looked up to the Pumphrey house just as a light went on in the southeast corner of the third floor.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**E N D **


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